


she kissed me just right, like only a lonely angel can

by janie_tangerine



Series: jbweek 2019 [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (idk if the last tag is actually worth having but I want to be sure so whatever), (no incest but it's still abusive), Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bar Room Brawl, Brienne of Tarth Has Issues, Cats, Cersei Fans Please Abstain, Cersei Lannister Bashing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Female Jaime Lannister, Friends to Lovers, Genderbending, Jaime Lannister Has Issues, Makeup, Oral Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Shopping, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vaginal Fingering, everyone else is as usual, not for cersei fans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 10:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20905853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “So,” Jaime tells her, half-smiling, after the doctor leaves, “this is where I tell you that I might have told the police that Cersei started it and that you were trying to help and that if we didn’t want it to get ugly, Cersei might forget your involvement if you, uh, don’t press charges, but if you want to, I wouldn’t stop you. I mean. She deserved it and you were sticking up for me, no way I would.”Brienne thinks about it, then shakes her head. “I have a feeling your sister could afford a good lawyer. I’m good if you are good.”Jaime shrugs. “I guess. I mean, I’m not, but — that’s not the point. By the way, thanks. I usually handle it, but this time it got ugly.”Her hair is falling over her cheek, half-hiding her face, even if it’s so short. Brienne tries to not think of how much her own face hurts.“No problem,” she says. “I mean, it’s not like she made things any worse than they were before. And I — well. I have a problem or ten letting shitty things happen.”





	she kissed me just right, like only a lonely angel can

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleurdulys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurdulys/gifts).

> ... AAAAND I thought I'd be on time and of course I'm late. AH WELL. this was supposed to be for jbweek day four _fall_, which also had _change_ in the alternate prompt, and since I promised fleurdulys genderbent fic this summer for reasons... WELL, HERE WE GO, have the take on genderbent!jaime fic where brienne is *not* genderbent - it was fun to branch out though xD also, endless thanks to totemundtabu for the beta service ;)
> 
> also, warning: the cersei bashing tag is there because she comes off as... her usual affc!self in here and she and brienne pretty much come to physical blows over it, which I tried to make as ic as possible especially given the context, and it also has to do with how I think she'd be if she had had a twin *sister* and not brother which would require a long-ass rant no one needs to hear, but anyway, again: please avoid if you're expecting me to write her as even remotely sympathetic. there, I warned. ALSO there's a fair amount of implied psychological manipulation/abuse on her side (tho just as a sibling relationship no incest this round) so like... thread carefully for the first 5k, after that it's basically fluff central. also my skills with f/f sex are what they are but I tried. ;)
> 
> other than that: as usual, the title is from Springsteen and the obligatory reference in-text is pretty obvious, nothing belongs to me except the plot I guess, have fun, I'll go try to finish both day five and six at once so I'm hopefully not too behind tomorrow xD

Admittedly, Brienne’s plan for the evening isn’t the most exciting thing that she could have come up with, and most likely going to drink alone in the pub just around the corner from your house in _her_ circumstances is downright sad.

As in, she was supposed to get drinks with that arse Hyle from the obligatory class about basic computing skills that she has to take even if it has nothing to do with her degree, except that she arrived earlier than usual and found him gossiping with the other guys in class who _had_ also asked her out saying that he _totally_ was about to win the bet they made about who’d get her to put out first, and so of course _that_ did not happen.

Still, she had — not _prettied herself up_, but admittedly she had worn her nicest jeans and shirt knowing they were supposed to go straight after class, and the idea of going back home to her cat and no one else and feeling sorry for herself on her own didn’t really sound appealing, so she went for drinks anyway and fuck Hyle. Not that she thinks she’ll score, she _doesn’t_ score and she’s entirely aware of it, she’s hooked up with maybe two guys who weren’t terrible but also were obviously into tall women and not her personality, but at least she’ll get back _after_ a nice buzz and she won’t think about that arse anymore.

Good plan, if not exciting.

And she had been at her second cocktail trying to enjoy what she could of it when it was disrupted by the two women sitting in the table next to hers.

Now, it’s not like she habitually makes a habit to listen to what people she doesn’t know talk about when she’s sitting near them. Actually, she tries not to because it’s rude, and it’s not her business.

Except that the table they pick is _exactly_ next to hers, and the moment they sit down… Brienne gets a wrong feeling. She doesn’t even know how to describe it, but it feels like the air has gotten thicker somehow, and — she dares glancing at her left as she sips on her straw.

So, it’s _definitely_ sisters. Older than Brienne, _possibly_ late twenties or early thirties. Most likely twins — if you go past how different they look because of their attires, they do have the exact same golden hair, square face and emerald green eyes, and while the noses are slightly different, they both have a nice, elegant curve. In short, girls whose looks Brienne has spent her entire teen years envying before deciding it wasn’t worth to poison herself with it.

Except.

_Except_.

There’s something inherently wrong with the picture.

On the surface, if you glanced at them and passed them by maybe it wouldn’t be.

But.

The sister sitting on Brienne’s same side is halfway glaring at the other one, Brienne can sort of see it if she turns a bit on the side. Also, she’s definitely spent at least half an hour getting ready before leaving the house — she’s wearing a silk green dress that matches her eyes and her carefully applied green and golden make-up with a smidge of black eyeliner that looks even too pricey for this place, her long, _long_ hair falls on her shoulders in golden, neat curls without one single strand out of place and the blood red lipstick on her lips looks like the kind that sticks for the entire day without smudging. Her manicured nails are lacquered in the same shade of red. Brienne glances at hers for one moment — short, blunt nails that she never bothered letting grow over large, calloused fingers, and tries to _not_ feel like she used to when she was fifteen and wished her classmates would ask her to the sleepovers where they did their own nails. In short, she looks like she’s about to head to a fashion show.

The _second_ sister, though… she’s right in front of Brienne because she’s sitting on the opposite side of the table, and while she _does_ share Miss Fashion Show’s golden hair and green eyes and stunning face, she doesn’t really seem to show it off. Her hair is cut in some kind of bob haircut that even Brienne can see is _not_ flattering — she’s attractive in _spite_ of it. Which is weird because as Brienne knows even too well, she _did_ keep her hair short for a while before deciding that she hated the look on her, that it’s not too hard to find a good one if you want to go for that, so why would she pick some kind of messy thing with hair that half-hides her cheeks because the fringe is really all over the place and just looks lackluster? Not that it’s Brienne’s business, but… it’s weird. Also, she’s not wearing make-up which means that she can see the dark-is bags under her eyes, and she’s wearing jeans and a plain green t-shirt one size too large that makes her breasts look one size smaller _at least_, while when it comes to the first sister… the dress leaves little to the imagination.

She also looks like she doesn’t want to be here.

Brienne goes back to her cocktail.

Then a waitress shows up and takes the sisters’ order… and Brienne doesn’t fail to notice that Miss Fashion Show orders salad for _the both of them_ and the other one says nothing.

Brienne keeps on drinking. Slowly.

Then —

“So, as I was saying before,” Miss Fashion Show says, and she sounds… annoyed, in the best interpretation of that tone, “I don’t think you understand the stakes.”

“I understand even too well,” her sister says, keeping her voice a bit lower, and sounding like she’d rather not have this conversation at all but at the same time like she realizes she can’t get out of it, “and I’m not doing it.”

“Jaime,” Miss Fashion show hisses, and at least Brienne has a name, “you _have_ to. He wouldn’t believe it from Father or from me, so it _has_ to be you.”

“Cersei, for —” Jaime shakes her head, half of that hair falling over her face before she moves it away, “I’m not ruining my brother’s life because you and Father think that if he marries his secretary the company loses shares on the stock market.” She stops, taking a deep breath. Brienne can see that her hand around the glass of water the waitress left them is slightly trembling. “Not that the stock market gives a flying fuck about who Tyrion marries since it’s not like _he_ is in PR.”

“That’s not the point and you know it,” Cersei presses, looking like she’s nowhere near pleased with that answer.

“Oh, so the point is that you don’t want her coming to the family dinners because her father was a miner and she got her degree with scholarships? If the crown prince can marry an American actress I’m sure Tyrion can marry into the working class without the world collapsing.”

Brienne almost winces at how bitter she sounds — what the _fuck_ is even going on here?

“And I don’t think you understand neither me nor him are _asking_.”

A moment later the salads arrive and Jaime looks down at hers like she wants to throw it to the ground, then looks back up at Cersei. “And I think — listen, you know I would — that I have — you can ask whatever you want, but I won’t do that. I can’t. I just _can’t_. I couldn’t live with myself if I did it and — please, when have I _ever_ told you no?”

Brienne barely hears that for how low her voice got, but — she sounds like she _might_ cry and from her vantage point it’s obvious that whatever is going on she doesn’t want to be here.

Cersei stabs her salad. “Go to the bathroom when you’re finished,” she says, and it’s the kind of tone you use when you want no replies, and —

Jaime sighs and starts eating that salad.

Very fast.

Brienne knows that getting involved is an exceedingly bad idea, but she’s been getting in between people fighting each other since the first day of first grade, and so she finishes her drink, stands up and heads quietly for the bathroom, which is thankfully empty. Then she locks herself in the first stall she sees, takes a chance to use it since those cocktails were substantial, and she’s not surprised that someone walks inside as she zips up her jeans. She doesn’t flush the toilet, and she’s not surprised when she hears sobbing coming from the next stall over.

She holds her breath, waits until the stall’s door opens and she hears the faucet running, then for the main door to open, which happens on cue maybe a minute later.

“For example,” Cersei says, not lowering her voice now that they’re _supposedly_ alone, “now.”

“Well, it’s the first goddamned time I do, unless my memory’s gone to shit,” Jaime snaps back, and now she sounds slightly angrier.

“Too bad that you picked the one thing where it’s not going to fly.”

“Too bad that I’m not budging,” Jaime argues, but Brienne can feel it’s a losing battle.

“For — how _stupid_ can you be? Don’t you get that if it doesn’t come from _you_ Father’s going to come up with some other way to stop that ridiculous marriage that’s going to eventually be worse for the both of them in the long run? You’re just doing him a kindness if you put him out of his misery first.”

“Worse than _publishing a smear campaign against that poor girl on the Daily Mail_ including making her family look like shit when her father is on welfare?”

“Oh, you have absolutely no idea of what the backup plan is. Yes, it’s worse.”

For a moment Jaime says nothing, and then —

“Fuck that,” she says, “if you want to do that, _you_ take responsibility for it. I don’t want any part in it. If you’re both so sure it’s necessary, you put your own damned faces on your actions. I’m not doing it.”

“Jaime.”

“I’m _not_. It might be stupid, it might be whatever the hell you want, I don’t care.”

“You know that Father is in close contact with —”

“This is where you tell me that if I don’t ruin my brother’s life I can forget passing that test? _Fine_,” she says. “Who cares. I’ll find something else. I’m still _not_ doing it.”

“I see you _really_ want to be your usual about this, huh?”

“Cersei, I said —”

Brienne has a feeling that this is going to get _worse_, and so she immediately flushes the toilet and opens the door, and —

Well, _fuck_.

Jaime is holding Cersei’s wrist away from her but it was obvious that Cersei had been about to backhand her or _something_ and the moment she shows up, Cersei’s eyes meet Brienne’s and she looks… very pissed off. _At least_.

Too bad.

“You know,” Brienne says, not even knowing she _would_ do that, “maybe if you want to hit someone that badly, you should try and hit _me _instead.”

“This isn’t your business and you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cersei says, and she _sounds_ pissed off. “Scram.”

“Sorry, it’s a public bathroom, and you’ll tell your children to _scram_, not me. So, are you letting her go or what?”

At _that_, Cersei just — she grabs Jaime by the arm and forcefully drags her out and Brienne can see her nails digging into the muscle on Jaime’s forearm and for a moment their eyes meet and Brienne can see that she _doesn’t_ really want to get out of the bathroom at all —

Oh, fuck that.

She follows them out as Cersei slams a twenty quid on their table before heading out, not that anyone is doing _anything_.

“Hey!” Brienne shouts after her, and at _that_ Cersei has to stop and people turn to actually look at what’s going on. “That conversation wasn’t finished.”

“I told you, you don’t know _anything_ and it’s not your business.”

“Cersei, shit,” Jaime says, “you’re _hurting_ me, let —”

Cersei doesn’t and just grabs at her arm tighter. “You, miss, have no idea who I am, and you’re really better off —”

“If your sister says she wants me to back off, I’m doing that. But she has to say it.”

“Well, tell her already!” Cersei snaps, and —

Jaime looks at Brienne, then at her, then — “You’re fucking _hurting_ me,” she says instead, “and no, I think I don’t really want her to back off.”

The next thirty seconds are — a blur, but later, Brienne puts things together more or less in this order. The moment Jaime says that Cersei _does_ let her go only to backhand her for real, just as Brienne takes a step forward and grabs Cersei’s arm so she doesn’t land the second blow, except that Cersei lands it on _her_, twice, and at that point Brienne — she usually tries to solve any situation she steps in by _not_ raising to the bait, but — but now she’s really damn angry, and on top of that Cersei’s nails _definitely_ cut her face during the second blow and she can feel blood welling up on her cheek, and before she’s thought about it she’s paid back the favor even if she purposefully _doesn’t_ land the blow full-strength, and a moment later Cersei’s shouting that she’ll sue and _then_ —

Then someone has screamed something and tried to go in between the three of them but Cersei lands a blow on the next guy who then lands one on _the next guy_ and suddenly half of the damned pub is exchanging blows and the owner is calling the cops and fifteen minutes later Brienne is sitting on a half-broken chair while some doctor who was in the pub tells her that those cuts will definitely scar and apologizes as he disinfects them before putting on a few butterfly stitches.

Jaime is sitting next to her, looking guiltily at her hands, and Brienne expects the cops she was discussing with before to show up, but —

But they don’t.

“So,” Jaime tells her, half-smiling, after the doctor leaves, “this is where I tell you that I might have told the police that Cersei started it and that you were trying to help and that if we didn’t want it to get ugly, Cersei might forget your involvement if you, uh, don’t press charges, but if you want to, I wouldn’t stop you. I mean. She deserved it and you were sticking up for _me_, no way I would.”

Brienne thinks about it, then shakes her head. “I have a feeling your sister could afford a good lawyer. I’m good if _you_ are good.”

Jaime shrugs. “I guess. I mean, I’m _not_, but — that’s not the point. By the way, thanks. I usually handle it, but this time it got ugly.”

Her hair is falling over her cheek, half-hiding her face, even if it’s so short. Brienne tries to not think of how much her face _hurts_.

“No problem,” she says. “I mean, it’s not like she made things any worse than they were before. And I — well. I have a problem or ten letting shitty things happen.”

Jaime snorts, but it sounds like she’s genuinely amused.

“I can see that,” she says, turning towards her, and she _does_ have a pretty smile. “Well, good luck to me explaining what happened.” She doesn’t sound like she’s looking forward to _that_.

“Let me guess,” Brienne says, “you two live together?”

“Family mansion,” Jaime confirms. “Not that I like it or that I haven’t tried to leave it for ages, but what can you do.”

Brienne has a feeling that if she goes back home with Cersei, it will get _uglier_.

She doesn’t even know why the hell she asks. Maybe she’s drunker than she thought. Still —

“I — I have a free sofa,” she says, tentatively. “I mean, if — if you’d rather stay somewhere else, I don’t mind if you take it for a couple of days. Unless —”

“Wait,” Jaime says, “you’re — you’re telling me I could sleep at your place? Just like that?”

“You look like you could use sleeping somewhere that’s not your house and something tells me you don’t particularly want to be on your own right now.”

Jaime _stares_ at her, green eyes right into hers, but then she smiles again —

“You might have a lot of good hunches. I’ll take the offer, but maybe we should introduce first.”

… Shit. They didn’t even do _that_, Brienne realizes. She immediately offers her hand. “Shit, I should’ve — never mind. I’m Brienne,” she says. Jaime takes it and Brienne can feel that she has a weird grip in her right, but she says nothing about it.

“Jaime, though I _guess_ you had grasped that. Well then, illustrious knight in shining armor, where can I find your sofa? Because it’s been a damn tiring day.”

“My sofa is two blocks from here,” she half-smiles back. “If we’re clear —”

“Oh, we’re clear. Do lead the way.”

Brienne does, her cheek still burning, and ten minutes later she has let Jaime into her apartment wondering what the _hell_ is she even doing.

The moment she closes the door, her cat jumps from the floor —

And heads straight for Jaime, rubbing her head at her ankles.

“Well,” Brienne smirks as Jaime looks obviously startled before leaning down to pick her up, “she likes you. She’s usually either all or nothing with new people.”

“So what, I passed a test?” Jaime half-smiles back, but she seems pretty happy with the fact that the cat obviously doesn’t hate her.

“Maybe,” Brienne says before dropping her bag on the sofa.

“What’s the name?”

“Rosalita. No judging.”

“On what, good taste in music? Not from me. I suppose we’ll have to share the sofa?”

“You don’t seem like you’d mind,” Brienne says. “Wait, I’ll, uh, get you something to sleep in.”

Which is going to be hilarious since while Jaime obviously works out and _has_ more muscle on her than average, though not _that_ much, she’s — well. Half _her_ size. She tries to not think about it as she finds some old t-shirt that’s a bit tight on her and a pair of shorts that _definitely_ won’t fit. When she comes back, Jaime is sitting on the sofa, still cuddling the cat.

“Uh,” Brienne says, “that’s the best I could find. Sorry, it won’t fit, but —”

“Please, you’re already doing too much,” Jaime shakes her head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Do you need some ice for —”

“Nah,” Jaime shrugs. “Not the first time. Not worth it either.”

Brienne doesn’t press and goes to find her some sheets for the sofa and a couple of blankets, and maybe she stays up until the light goes off in the next room and she can see that her guest has gone out light a light with the cat sleeping at her feet.

Then she goes to bed herself.

When she wakes up in the night and hears crying coming from the next room, she’s _this_ tempted to get up, but —

She already meddled enough, she thinks.

She turns on her side, feeling like shit and trying to not touch the stitches on her face.

— —

“Shit, she _really_ did a number on you,” Jaime says the next morning as Brienne hands her a cup of tea and tries to not stare at all the ways her old _Devils and Dust_ tour t-shirt is leaving half of Jaime’s shoulder bare.

Mostly because she can see some faint scars on there, and it looks like the same kind she will have on her face later.

“It’s fine,” she shrugs, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I mean, I was there on my own because the guy who was supposed to be my date asked me out on a bet, so it’s not like she made things worse.”

Jaime’s eyes narrow. “He did _what_,” she asks.

“Ask me out on a bet,” Brienne shrugs. “Nothing that hadn’t happened in middle school before.” To anyone else, she might have added, _and of course you wouldn’t know how it feels_, but she doesn’t now because Jaime looks legitimately outraged and it’s not — a look she usually sees directed at her, on her behalf, by… girls who are actually good looking.

“What the fuck,” Jaime says, “I hope you backhanded him, too.”

“No,” Brienne smiles in spite of herself, “but I made him regret he tried it anyway.”

“Good,” Jaime says, nodding, and then she clears her throat. “Listen, uh, I hate to impose, but I think you gathered that yesterday’s drama was… about my brother. Uh, my phone is dead and I really should call him, do you mind if —”

“Oh, sure,” Brienne says. “Just give it over, I’ll charge it. You can use mine.”

“Thanks,” Jaime sighs. “Shit, it’s going to be hilarious coming home.”

“… Can I ask what’s the matter or…”

“Well, at this point I kind of owe you, I guess, but — it’s Jaime _Lannister_.”

Suddenly, Brienne thinks she gets it. “Wait, Lannister like —”

“Like _Tywin Lannister_, yes, the only man whose dream is turning into the same kinda thing Disney is when it comes to cannibalize any insurance company in the entire nation. I’m — well. The low-profile progeny, I guess.”

Fair — Brienne sort of recognizes Cersei from the tabloids now, but she doesn’t think she’s ever seen Jaime in one. Or in the news, where her father always shows up.

But —

“Then your brother —”

“Indeed,” Jaime sighs. “Is _exactly_ the not low-profile sibling you’re thinking of. Who is about to marry his secretary, who is a perfectly nice girl but sadly comes from no money, and my sister wanted me to tell him she was trying to scam all of us and that I had the proof because as I am the only person in the family he actually trusts, of course he’d buy it coming from me. And like hell I’d do that, but — yeah. That was the point. So, he should probably know. And the moment he knows my father will want me dead.”

Brienne can hear she’s absolutely serious. She also should _not_ get involved any further.

Also, Jaime looks like she’s having the worst day of her life, and Brienne doesn’t know how to _not_ get involved, apparently.

“Couldn’t you go somewhere else for a while?”

“No relative is ever going to house me the moment I fuck his plan over and I could go to a hotel, I guess, but — ah, well, might as well spill the entire story. I happen to be better than average when it comes to painting. No one in the family approves and years ago I tried to get into a pretty good art school, but — I had an accident to the right hand, let’s just put it like that. So, that didn’t work out. But I persevered out of the limelight and I managed to get another shot at the entrance test to that same school, except that my father knows the dean. Personally. The test was supposed to be next week, but the moment I make this call I know I won’t pass it even if I give them some masterpiece, and while I’ll have access to the money on my not-so-recently departed mom’s trust fund, my credit card _definitely_ won’t work anymore. And I’d rather not blow half of the trust fund on a hotel or a house when I don’t even know what to do with my life.”

“And you don’t have any doubts about making that call?” Brienne asks as she slides her phone towards Jaime.

“No,” she says at once. “He’s my damned brother and I love him, I’ll live anyway. He most likely _wouldn’t_ bounce back that easily. It’s not even a question.”

She dials the number, and Brienne sees her smiling genuinely around the bruise on her cheek as her brother picks up the call, and she thinks that the woman in front of her has just pretty much sacrificed something she’s been yearning for a long time just for the sake of doing the right thing —

“I don’t know,” Jaime says into the phone, “I’ll find someplace. It’s fine, don’t worry. Just, ring up the Daily Mail and offer them more money, I don’t know. Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Wait,” Brienne says, and Jaime lowers the phone.

“What?”

“I mean, I’m on my own here and at times I thought it’d be nice to get a roommate even if I should, like, get a better couch for that, but — if you need someplace to stay for a while, just stay here and tell him to find out some clothes.”

Jaime stares at her, then tells Tyrion she’ll call him later and puts the phone on the side.

“You haven’t known me for an entire day and you’re telling me to take your couch _indefinitely_?”

Brienne shrugs. “I might just have done that.”

“Not that I’m complaining, I mean, shit, that’d — that’d be a lifesaver, but — _why_?”

She sounds like she can’t conceive that she’d do it just like _that_. Brienne shrugs again and sips her tea.

“You just gave up what sounded like your life dream to do the right thing,” she finally says. “And you didn’t even think about it. I — let’s just say I think that if you can help out someone who’s in trouble for having done the right thing, you should.”

Jaime stares at her, mouth half-parted. Brienne can see that she has pearly, straight teeth. Then she closes it. “Not to pry, but is it because _you_ have a ladyboner for doing the right thing and not many people give you credit for that?”

Brienne _has_ to laugh at that, as much as she wishes she could not. “Am I that transparent?”

“I don’t know, you seem to not care that my lovely sister left you four gashes on your cheek just because you tried to stop her from being her usual lovely self to_ me_, I had a hunch.”

“And so what?”

Jaime keeps on looking at her. “Are you sure? I mean, uh, I’m not — how do I put it, according to Cersei I’m not really the best person to share living space with, and —”

“I don’t think I give much of a damn about your sister’s opinion, the cat likes you and not counting a friend I’ve made because I used to babysit her brother, there’s been only one woman with _good_ looks I’ve talked to my entire life that hasn’t made me feel like shit about my own in the first five minutes except for you, so I think I’m sure. Tell him. It’s fine.”

Jaime doesn’t protest any further and calls Tyrion again, and Brienne should probably wonder what the fuck she’s doing and whether she’s losing her mind letting an almost complete stranger stay on her sofa for who knows how long, but then she sees that Jaime sounds genuinely surprised when she tells Tyrion that yes Brienne is apparently _that_ nice, and she’s sort of smiling and that bruise on her face just got darker, and she remembers how she looked yesterday evening —

Yeah, well. For once she’s going to go with her gut.

— —

“She _did_ say you were too good to be true,” Tyrion Lannister tells her three hours later while Jaime has gone to take a shower — he showed up with a couple of suitcases’ worth of clothing, but nothing _that_ much, all things considered.

“Sorry?”

“She told me when I asked her if you were really letting her stay here. Seems she was right, but thanks, for what it’s worth.”

“You’re welcome, but — it’s really nothing. Also, she seemed outraged at learning I just found out that people asked me out on a bet, so I guess she’s not going to ruin my life.”

Tyrion laughs, but it doesn’t sound very genuine. “Oh, she’s like that. I mean, bless her, she’ll never know exactly how it feels when people decide your looks are a good reason to ruin your life, but to her credit she never gave a fuck about anyone’s looks. Why do you think she’s the only person in the family I don’t hate?”

Brienne nods, also noticing that all the clothing in Jaime’s open suitcases is… strangely _normal_ from someone who comes from that much money. It’s all jeans and t-shirts and a few leather jackets, and she can see at once they’re not the flattering cut kind of.

She says nothing, though, and offers Tyrion some tea and felicitations on his nuptials instead.

Tyrion just half-smiles at her and tells her that he’s _really_ glad that if Jaime’s making friends with someone for once she ran into a decent person.

Brienne doesn’t press any further.

— —

“What did your brother mean with the fact that _for once you were making some friends_?”

“Oh,” Jaime replies as Rosalita jumps on her legs — she’s sitting on the sofa while Brienne gets the trash bags ready. “He told you, I guess. Well, I don’t really have that many that aren’t _his_ first.” She shrugs. “For some reason everyone always went to Cersei first and never cared much to talk to me as well.”

“Your sister sounds like a piece of work,” Brienne mutters.

“Can’t disagree,” Jaime answers. “Fuck, I _hate_ this hair.”

It’s in her face, _again_.

“Get a better cut,” Brienne says. “If you want them short, you have options that aren’t… that. I mean, I got through a few and then I decided I was done with people assuming I was a guy without even blinking. Also, I never liked it on me that much. Still, there’s better than that.”

Jaime looks down at the cat, then at her, then shakes her head. “What if I told you that I don’t think I ever had a choice in it?”

“… How exactly?”

She shrugs again. “I always went with Cersei to get them cut because I really didn’t care either way. And she always was suggesting to keep them short so people wouldn’t mistake us, not that she ever said _she_ could keep them short for a change. And she was always saying this or that would be good, and I never said no also because I couldn’t care less for how my damned hair looked, and — never mind. Long story. But this one is really fucking terrible.”

Brienne decides that she doesn’t like a single thing she’s just heard.

“It’s your hair,” she finally says as she grabs both trash bags to put out. “If I were you I’d get rid of that fringe since it just gets in your way, but other than that… you should keep it the way _you_ want it. Not the way other people do. I’ll, uh, take this out.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the cat,” Jaime says, sounding like she’s thinking about something completely different.

Brienne doesn’t press the topic when she gets home and she’s only too glad of it when Jaime suggests marathoning something on Netflix.

The next morning, though, Jaime gets out of the house at dawn and comes back at ten AM with the fringe completely _gone_ and the ends of her hair trimmed.

“Fuck that,” she says, “you’re right. I’m growing it just for science.”

Brienne stares at the way her slightly oversize t-shirt doesn’t really flatter Jaime’s chest at all, and says nothing.

She has a feeling that if she asked, she’d find out that she doesn’t dress in flattering clothes because somehow her sister told her not to.

— —

Thing is: the feeling is proved right when a week or so after Jaime starts camping on her couch Brienne comes back home to find her cursing in front of the mirror.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, moving into the room.

“That today I was supposed to go look at art school alternatives in the afternoon and my face still looks like Cersei backhanded me with a ring on, that’s what’s wrong,” Jaime sighs, and yeah, the bruise on her cheek is _still_ red and not fading anytime soon.

“Uh,” Brienne says, “I don’t do make-up because — _no_, but I have concealer somewhere. I bought it because someone told me I’d look better covering up the freckles and I regret each cent I spent on it, but I think it shouldn’t look too bad on you.” After all, Jaime’s skin is more on the warm side than hers, but it’s not _too_ far from it. Also, not that Brienne would try it now. The stitches on her cheek came off and thankfully then scars aren’t _deep_, but covering them with foundation would be completely idiotic.

“What if I tell you I never put any on in my entire life?”

“… You _never_?” Brienne is surprised. She had assumed _she_ would have, considering that she’s actually the kind of person who wouldn’t look ridiculous in it.

Jaime shrugs again. “Somehow the two times I tried Cersei managed to convince me I looked better without. Admittedly I couldn’t put it on for shit at the time, but never mind that.”

Brienne would say _something_, but keeps her mouth shut and looks for the concealer instead.

“That said,” Jaime says unprompted as Brienne fishes it out of one her cabinets, “I think the last time I wore a dress we both were ten and she spent the evening telling me that I really looked better in trousers and it didn’t fit me whatsoever.”

“The last time I wore a dress I was eight and people told me I looked so horrible in it that no one would ever want to date me, so not that I don’t get it, but you know the more I hear about your sister the more my already bad opinion of her plummets downwards?”

“That’s refreshing to hear, admittedly,” Jaime sighs. “Not that I didn’t get it at some point. I mean, I did. It just — you know how that story of the frog in the boiling water goes. So, you’ve got that concealer?”

“Yeah, but I used it once and gave up on it.”

“Well, I don’t use make-up but considering you have freckles all over, I’d figure it would be dumb as hell to try and cover them. Also, freckles are cute.”

“You might be the first person who tells _me_ that,” Brienne says as she opens the small vase in her hands and Jaime leans back on the sink.

“They are, I’m not bullshitting. Anyway, you can’t do worse than me. Just give it a go.”

Brienne nods, leaning down slightly — she has some three or four inches on Jaime, which means she has a pretty good view of the bruise in question, and somehow she manages to at least _someway_ cover it. It’s not flawless, but when she says she can’t do more than this, it looks like Jaime has slammed against a door’s hinges by mistake rather than, well, the real reason.

“Huh,” Jaime says, “could be worse. Thanks, I owe you… I don’t even know how much by now.”

“Please,” Brienne says, “it’s fine. Good luck with the school search.”

“Yeah, won’t I need it,” Jaime sighs, and then throws on a leather jacket over the usual unflattering shirts and leaves, the door closing softly behind her.

Rosalita mewls fairly loudly a moment later and Brienne heads for the kitchen to get her some food, shaking her head and telling herself she’s never going to envy rich people for _anything_ in her life.

— —

Jaime shows up at six PM with what looks like a fairly good whiskey bottle in her hands.

“So,” she says, “any option I have means touching the trust fund because I wouldn’t qualify for scholarships even if I were the next Picasso or something, and right now it’s really not a good idea because most likely my father has already warned any single art-related venue in the country to not take me seriously, so I figured I’d worry about it next spring and get spectacularly drunk for once. You in?”

Brienne, who comes from an entire day of people whispering behind her back that being asked out on a bet is the only way she _will_ get asked out, says that she’ll take it, and that’s how they end up being completely tipsy half an hour later after giving up on finishing _Stranger Things_.

“You know,” Jaime half-slurs at some point, “the more I’m like, not anywhere _near_ my shitty family the more I ask myself why the fuck did I let my sister just — do it. So she thinks I look like shit with make-up — who _cares_, right? Not that I want to wear it either way, but —”

“Please,” Brienne says, “I never even _dared_ do it because every single person I knew would laugh at the idea and tell me that it would just make me look even worse. And — I kind of never did it anyway, but at least your sister is _your sister_. It’s not like those people were my friends.”

Jaime stares at her for a long, long moment before taking another drink. Her green eyes look almost scalding with something Brienne can’t quite pinpoint. Then she half-grins. “You know what,” she says, “I declare that as we obviously both missed on at least _trying it out, _tomorrow we go out like sensible nice girls, buy ourselves some cheap stuff and do it. I mean, there are Youtube tutorials for make-up, right? How hard can it be?”

Brienne, who has never had a _girl_ friend to do it with, is also not sober at all, and that’s how she says fuck it, why not. After all, it’s a thing that everyone does when they’re in high school, so what if they’re doing it now when they obviously haven’t before?

The next day, Jaime is sober _and_ entirely bent on doing it, so Brienne puts on some clothes and follows her into the nearest Primark.

They come out with enough stuff to at least cover the basics for some fifteen quid, which she supposes isn’t really that much.

Well, at least she supposes that if she really does look even uglier, at least she won’t be doing this with someone who’ll judge her for it.

— —

“… Maybe it’s harder than we thought,” Jaime proclaims three hours later.

“Maybe it is,” Brienne agrees, because with all the tutorials they watched, they both proceeded to make a completely botched job out of it when it came to doing it themselves and even worse when it came to doing it for each other, and Brienne _did_ notice that Jaime’s right hand held the eye pencil wrong but said nothing about it. Now they’re wiping off the results of their terrible efforts, but while Brienne really doesn’t mind either way, Jaime _kind_ of looks a bit down.

“Hey,” she asks, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I just, I don’t even care about looking good with make-up, but I was kind of hoping I’d prove Cersei wrong, you know. And instead —”

Brienne thinks she gets it.

Brienne also realizes that maybe it’s that _they_ are hopeless, but —

“Wait,” she says, “I think I can call the cavalry.”

“.. As in?”

“Just wait a moment.” She whips out her phone, texts Loras, tells me _what if I wanted to take you up on those make-up lessons you offered me once_, and a second later she gets an answer that goes, _I’m coming over before you change your mind_.

Of course.

“Cheer up,” Brienne says, “I have a friend who’s actually, like, into doing it professionally for theaters. He’s always asked me if I wanted to learn and I said no, but he apparently was just waiting for me to change my mind and he’s showing up in probably an hour, if I know him.”

“… Wait, you called him just —”

“I mean,” Brienne says, “learning can’t hurt, but it’s obvious we both are shit at it, for now, so maybe having someone who’s not on Youtube and might actually show us how we’re holding the damned things wrong would help.”

“… Fair,” Jaime agrees, and when Loras shows up exactly when Brienne said he would and asks them to try and do it on their own again, she figures the humiliation will be worth it.

“Good grief,” he says when they’re done, “we have to start from scratch here. Thanks for not abiding gender roles, I guess.”

Jaime half-laughs and says she likes him, he replies that he’s flattered but he’s also into guys so she can keep the flirting, and then proceeds to tell them exactly _all_ the ways they did it wrong.

When Loras is done with them and has explained them exactly where they went wrong and how to _never_ ever try to mix blue and red eyeshadow, Brienne has to admit — he did a good job. The pale blue eyeshadow moving into darker with a barely-there silver tint looks _nice_ on her, and the dark blue mascara also makes her eyelashes look longer — she had about refused lipstick but Loras insisted on a pale pink that does actually _not_ give her mouth a grotesque look. He hasn’t tried to cover the scars or anything, but admittedly if she wears make-up the attentions _is_ diverted from the four thin strips on her cheek.

Jaime, though —

She can barely keep herself from whistling when Loras moves away from her after having finished with Brienne. It’s not like she wasn’t attractive before because she _was_, Brienne can notice things objectively, thank you very much, but the pale green going into moss blend he chose for her eyeshadow _really_ makes her eyes pop up, same as the slight golden tinge he put on it, and it’s nowhere near as heavy as Cersei’s was at the pub. The touch of blush and the warm pink shade of lipstick _really_ compliment her, and for a moment she wants to feel envious because of course she looks _way_ better than Brienne ever will, makeup or not, but the moment Jaime stares at herself like she can barely recognize her own face in the mirror she can’t because it was _exactly_ the same way she had looked at herself.

“Fuck me,” Jaime says, “you’re good.”

“Thanks,” Loras deadpans, “don’t you_ ever_ try to mix shades the way you had before and _don’t_ go on Youtube, call me instead. Anyway, always up to share some knowledge. Now I’ve gotta go before Renly kills me for being late for lunch, but have fun. By the way, that’s _my_ make-up, which means that it’s good, not that trash Primark stuff you got, which means that it’s going to stay up until you remove it.”

He leaves while laughing to himself, and it leaves the two of them looking at each other like they don’t know what to make with themselves now, and the fact that Jaime looks as perplexed as _Brienne_ is… well, that’s consoling. She thinks.

“You know what,” Jaime says, “fuck everything, we should go buy some nice clothing and get out of the house.”

“We — we should _what_?”

She shrugs. “Well, you said you haven’t worn a dress since you were eight because of people being asses, I haven’t worn one since forever because I actually listened to Cersei, and we hadn’t done _this_ for the same reasons, right?”

“… Right.”

“Yeah, well, fuck them. Let’s just go get something nice and have drinks at their expenses. I’m paying.”

“Weren’t you —”

“Trying not to touch the trust fund? Brienne, you’re letting me sleep on your couch and you were the only damned person in what, thirty years, who ever saw Cersei being like _that_ and told her to fuck off, and believe me when I say I never had the guts to do that myself because no one thought _she_ had a problem so I convinced myself _I_ had one. Even if you don’t want to bring owing you things into it, I think I can afford to do that for a few clothes.”

Thing is — she sounds like she means it and like she’s wholly serious about it, and shit but Brienne has no idea of what you do in this kind of situation because _when_ has she been in it, it’s not like she ever went shopping for clothing with her girlfriends never mind female relatives (not when she doesn’t even remember her mother and her father has no close female relatives either) but —

She reaches for her jacket, moving closer. “All right,” she says, “I’m down with that, but — I mean, I just want to say, it’s nothing you _have_ to do and all in all, I think I like having you here.” Which is true — the house is less silent, she likes having someone to talk to the she doesn’t have to tiptoe around all the time and doesn’t make her feel like a third wheel even unwillingly (because always hanging out with two guys in a couple _will_ do that at some point), she likes not insulting bad tv on her own anymore but doing it with someone who has a lot meaner comments than she ever could, she — she likes having a friend around regularly and one who _will_ ask her to go shopping just like that because she _means_ it and not because she finds some perverse fun in seeing her struggle to find clothing that fits. She likes having someone around permanently who doesn’t make her feel like she’s being constantly judged on her looks, because Sansa doesn’t, of course, but she also doesn’t see her regularly that much these days, and she likes sharing the house with someone who looks legitimately happy to see her on any given morning. Blame her for that.

Jaime smiles back slightly. She really does have a pretty smile, doesn’t she?

“Then it’s a deal,” she says. “Come on, we’re going shopping.”

It’s the first time in Brienne’s life she doesn’t dread hearing that sentence spoken.

— —

Two hours later, they’re raiding the nearest _Beyond Retro_ shop they could find and Brienne is standing outside the changing room with a bunch of things in her arms that she really doesn’t think are a good idea, and she told Jaime that white was not a good look on her, but there’s a limited choice of dresses in her size and Jaime just declared that they were going to try until they found a good one.

Brienne still sent her in first, figuring that she’ll buy herself some time. Jaime also grabbed _lingerie sets_ for the both of them because _fuck that, we need to live a little_, and — well. Brienne has noticed that she only wears sport bras, same as _her_, but she also noticed that Cersei did _not_.

She gets it.

She really does.

That is, for a moment, the second Jaime comes out of the room, she _does_ think that the world is unfair — after all, _she_ won’t suddenly turn into a fashion model the moment she wears good clothes.

Jaime, though —

The bra she picked before doesn’t flatten her chest — it’s a regular one that probably costs fifteen quid, but it’s not a _sports_ one, which means that right now Jaime’s C cup is _not_ being hidden or flattened, and you can see it under the pale green dress she’s wearing. It’s a nice dress — short sleeves embroidered with leaves in a darker shade, frilly hems at the end of the skirt and a dark green bow to tie it up, and the V neck lets you see just enough of her breasts.

“So,” she smiles, looking absolutely like _she doesn’t think it’s a big deal_, “what do you say?”

She twirls around, the way they do in movies all the time.

“That — that looks _great_,” Brienne admits, because it does.

“Really?”

What — she means it. She _really means it_.

“Yeah,” Brienne says. “_Really_. Especially now that your hair’s not in front of your eyes.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Right, I’m getting it then.” She goes back in, changes into her jeans and t-shirt, then comes out with her purchases. “Come on, try your stuff on.”

“Maybe —”

“Brienne, _try_ that stuff on. Really, at worse we’ll just take another look. But I’m sure there has to be something good in there.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll — go then.”

Brienne gets into the changing room.

First, she tries on the blue bra Jaime threw at her before — fine. It’s not that bad. It’s comfortable, even if it’s _lace_, but without a wire, and while it doesn’t do anything to make her breasts look any bigger, _well_, it still gives them more of a shape than her usual ones. Slightly. But better than nothing. The coordinated panties also fit for a miracle, even if she feels ridiculous in _lace panties_.

But those are good.

The rest, though —

The first dress, the white one, doesn’t even fit her shoulders, so she discards it. A green one fits all wrong because it’s too large on her front and too tight on the back. A yellow one sort of fits but she thinks the color just doesn’t pay her any favors, so she hands them back to Jaime telling her they won’t work and goes on.

By the time she’s at the sixth and last one, it’s — a pink one that is the same exact shade as the one she wore the last time she had a dress on, and it’s just, so hideous she doesn’t start crying in the room just because she doesn’t want to ruin her make-up. Also, for some reason her scars look way darker now and she can’t just look at herself anymore, so she takes off the damned thing and hands it over to the other side, or better, throws it Jaime’s way.

Except that when she throws it out, it probably shows she’s pissed off.

“What’s wrong?” Jaime asks.

“Never mind,” Brienne says, “I’m just getting the lingerie. It’s fine. I knew nothing would fit.”

“Wait,” Jaime says.

“No point. Really, it’s ridiculous, I don’t need —”

A second later, Jaime darts inside, grabs her regular clothes and darts outside.

“What —”

“Sorry, no can do. Just stay there five minutes, I saw a thing before that might work, and I need you to _not_ chicken out. Be right back!”

Brienne wishes she could be angry.

But —

It’s obvious she _means_ it. And that she’s trying. And that she honestly really is invested in her coming out of this store with the nice dress. And quite no one else ever did that, so —

She sighs and waits, and some ten minutes later Jaime hands her clothing back _and_ what looks a dark blue silken dress.

“Try _that_,” she says, sounding very confident about it.

Brienne sighs and does, figuring it won’t work —

And then she looks at the mirror.

Huh. It’s below knee-length, with a soft cut and a waistline that actually moves up under the breasts, and for some miracle it _does_ fit her without needing to adjust anything. It laces up with a small silver bow in the middle of the waistline, it also has frills on the hems both at the skirt and at the extremely short sleeves, the rounded neck actually does pay her a few favors when it comes to her breasts not looking like they don’t exist, and the color actually looks good on her.

“Uh, wait,” Jaime says from the outside, “if it works, try these on, too.”

And then she hands her a pair of shoes. With five-inch heels.

“Are you sure —”

“Try them,” Jaime says, and Brienne does, figuring that it can’t hurt.

They fit. Also, the heel isn’t thin, which means she doesn’t feel like she’ll fall at any second.

“Come on, let me see,” Jaime says, and Brienne gathers her courage and gets out of the room —

And Jaime _whistles_.

“See,” she says, “I have eye. You’re getting it, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Brienne says, barely believing it. “But the heels —”

“Please, they show off your legs. You’re tall, you’ve got them, own it. Come on, hand me everything, I’ll pay.”

Brienne goes back inside the room, does, and when they go back to her place and get dressed while erupting in giggle fits every second, she thinks that maybe _this_ is how having friends of the female variety should fell.

Probably.

She wouldn’t know.

But she thinks she _does_ like it.

— —

Thing is: she entirely expects that the moment they walk inside a pub, people will hit on Jaime. That’s fine. She gets it. And considering what she gathered, if Jaime wanted to go for it, she surely wouldn’t say no.

Except —

People _do_ hit on Jaime. And she turns down each single one of them because they’re there _to get drinks together and not to hook up, but bring a friend next time, maybe_. At the end of the day, no one’s hit on _her_ even if no one also told her that she’s trying too hard, but Jaime has turned them all down as well, and when Brienne tells her she _could_ have gone home with one of them —

“I could have,” Jaime replies, nodding, “but as stated, the point was getting drinks with _you_, not with _them_, and I really don’t do hook ups anyway. I mean, it’s fun and all, but — I don’t know. I like the idea of being with people I actually _know_, so thanks but I’ll pass. So, how did you say you punched the ass that humiliated you in elementary school again? Because I really want to hear _that_.”

Brienne takes a sip of her cocktail and launches into how she kicked Ronnet Connington’s ass years later at the local boxing ring every single time he went up against her, and Jaime looks absolutely delighted at hearing it, and —

If Brienne, later, when she’s a lot tipsier, says that she wishes any of her female classmates had been like her, no one could blame her for that.

“Imagine that,” Jaime smirks, “each single female classmate I had just wanted to be friends with Cersei. If they talked to me, it was to get to her.”

“… Seriously? Sorry but fuck their tastes,” Brienne says without even thinking about it, and Jaime laughs so hard she actually cries as they lean on each other on the way back home.

Right.

Maybe this going out with nice dresses thing was a good idea, after all.

— —

When they come back, they’re both sort of _really_ buzzed and they both crash on the sofa after they take off the dresses and manage to clean off the make-up, and Brienne doesn’t quite know how they end up with Jaime’s head on her shoulder but it doesn’t feel… weird.

“Fuck,” Jaime says, “can you believe that I can’t remember the last time I had fun?”

“… What? Like, with someone?”

“In _general_.” She raises up the right hand. “See this? I guess you’ve wondered what the hell was up with it.”

“I don’t — I mean, it’s your business, you don’t have to —”

“Shut up, I _want_ to. I’ve never told anyone, might as well do it. Anyway, both Cersei and my illustrious father convinced me to do an internship with this asshole former business partner of his, who regardless of being married with three children thought he could cop a feel whenever he wanted. Except after the third time I told him I wasn’t going to stay any longer and he might have broken four fingers slamming it in between his door and the damned wall. Long story short, Cersei and my father forbid me to press charges and goodbye art school and welcome years of physical therapy to actually use it decently again because I’m fucking useless with the left. Of course, all along my sister was behaving like it was my damned fault and I was so out of it I actually bought it and you saw how it was.” She shrugs. “So, no, I haven’t had _fun_ in the last eight years or so and I felt so down I couldn’t even think of going out to meet other people.”

Brienne tentatively brings a hand around her shoulder, and when Jaime moves _closer_ to her, she’s fairly sure her skin turns hotter.

Shit. She really is drunk.

“Well,” Brienne says, “I — really haven’t _that_ much fun lately either. Maybe we should do it more often?”

“You know what,” Jaime says, closing her eyes, and is she smiling, _what_, “I’ll take you up on it. Let’s make it a thing. Say what you want, you’re definitely pretty damn good when it comes to bringing a girl out for drinks.”

Brienne snorts and maybe she doesn’t actually go to her bed, and if the next day they wake up all over each other… well.

That’s what happens with _everyone_ who has normal friendships, right?

— —

After that, they make a habit of doing it once in a while, when Brienne doesn’t have classes and Jaime isn’t either helping her brother out with wedding planning (because the wedding _is_ happening after all) or trying to find some decent art school that’ll take her next year, and — it’s nice. It _is_. And each single time Jaime doesn’t go home with anyone who hits on her, and the two times someone hits on Brienne she doesn’t go home with them either mostly because she doesn’t really fancy either of them, but the first time it happens Jaime just sends her a smug look that says _see that they don’t just look at me_, and —

It’s nice. There’s _something_ that she hasn’t quite pinpointed about how she likes that Jaime will _not_ go home with someone else and leave her there as she could do, but she gives up on figuring it out for the moment.

That is, until a month passes in between their last two nights out because in between the wedding plans and Brienne’s classes starting again they’re too exhausted to leave the house, and when Jaime shows up with a new pair of heavy dark jeans and dark leather boots that she bought for the winter, Brienne realizes that her hair has gotten a _lot_ longer, and she hadn’t noticed because Jaime keeps it tied up more often than not —

But now that she’s letting it down, she can see that it’s the same golden as Cersei but less curly, more — more wavy, and she doesn’t style it in a way that makes it look like some kind of perfect wig, and it frames her face perfectly as it falls downwards on her shoulders up until the middle of her back.

For a single, single split moment, Brienne can’t help the traitorous thought — _of course she looks gorgeous with it while I can barely braid mine._

But then she realizes what it actually implied.

_Of course she looks gorgeous_.

What —

“Hey,” Jaime says, grabbing her bag, “you coming?”

“Yeah, sure,” Brienne says, leaving the water for the cat in the corner, and realizing that she’s staring at how Jaime’s leather jacket hugs her back so very snugly —

_What the hell_?

— —

Three hours later, Brienne just —

She knows.

She never was one for self-denial, it never brings you anywhere. And after what she spent the last three hours staring at, she realizes that now she knows what is that feeling she gets whenever Jaime turns down guys who hit on her.

It’s — it’s that she’s glad of it.

Fuck.

_Fuck_, she’s into her roommate, because at this point that’s what they are, and she never — she never even knew she was into women, she’s _never_ even looked at one that way before, but — but she is.

Later, she tries to rationalize it.

Fine, she never looked at women like that, but a lot of the time she could barely bear to glance at people whose looks she envied, deep down. And admittedly, she never exactly found them attractive _in general_, but — but she really couldn’t envy Jaime her looks because she’s the first person who doesn’t even think about them and every single time she actually gave a shit it was because of things they did together that she had no experience with either. And the moment _that_ was not an issue —

Well.

It’s not just that Jaime’s attractive, because she _is_. But she’s also fun, and Brienne likes her not-really-politically-correct-jokes, and she’s the kind of person who has given up on her life plans for someone else and she hasn’t complained about it since and the kind of person who _will_ glare into shutting up any guy who looks about to comment on her looks whenever they go out, and who will drag her into the bathroom to show her whatever new eyeliner technique Loras taught her through their fairly intense WhatsApp sessions without even thinking once that Brienne doesn’t belong anywhere eyeliner tutorials are, and fuck, Brienne is too old for this. She can’t be having a crush on someone she’s sharing a house with who most likely would _not_ be into her anyway — Jaime never said anything about being into women.

Shit.

_Shit_.

She just hopes she manages to keep it hidden the way she had with Renly the moment she found out he was into men. It can’t be too hard, right? And she’s so _never_ going to tell either him or Loras that she’s apparently into at least _one_ woman now, or they’ll never let her live this down.

— —

Brienne _does_ try to keep it hidden.

Too bad that it lasts until Jaime clears her throat one rainy November evening — she’s been here for six months by now and the cat about likes her more than she likes Brienne, not that Brienne minds any.

“So,” Jaime says, “Tyrion’s getting married in a month. As I’m sure you know.”

“I think I do,” Brienne says as she stirs the pasta she’s trying to cook. “Did anything happen?”

“No, but I need a plus one,” Jaime says very casually as she feeds the cat. “I mean, I have to be the witness, and Cersei’s not coming, thank fuck, but — just, would you come with?”

Brienne, who had no idea she had even been invited, almost burns herself touching the pot. “Wait, what,” she turns the gas off, “you want _me_ to be your plus one?”

Jaime half-smiles at her. “Well, someone with a sadder look of life than me would say that you’re kind of my only choice unless I want to drag a relative, because as we established I don’t really have other friends, but fact is, I’m not asking you because you are, or because you’re the only reason this wedding is actually happening.” She glances down at the cat, then back up at Brienne, crossing her arms under her chest. “I’m asking because even if I had other option I’d pick you anyway.”

Brienne is _really_ glad she has turned off the fire.

She moves away from the stove, stopping in front of Jaime, who’s lying against the back of the couch and staring up at her with a fairly sheepish look, but — it’s not like she _doesn’t_ mean it.

“You — you would?” Brienne isn’t sure she’s not imagining this entire conversation, because it’s just — absolutely not what she had been picturing she’d say, but —

“Case is,” Jaime says, and now she looks like she’s nowhere near confident in what she’s about to do, but she still stares up at her, pressing her lips together, and then — “when I told Tyrion you were too good to be true it was because I couldn’t believe you actually did — what you did, but the more time passed the more you kept on — just being _that_, I guess, and this doesn’t sound even remotely the way it did in my head and I’m just — I’m a disaster at this, for —”

“Come on, you’re talking to _me_,” Brienne says, and there’s no way this is what it seems it is, “being a disaster at anything is hardly —”

“You’re _not_,” she says, “and — fuck, this is because I never was in this goddamned situation and no thanks to my fucking sister, but that was me trying to ask you out on a date and utterly failing at it, so —”

“You were _asking me out_,” Brienne says.

“Some of us like it both ways,” Jaime says, “and yes, I _was_, but I mean, if you don’t want to —”

Brienne doesn’t usually act on a whim. Last time she did, she told Jaime she could camp on her sofa for however long.

Except that apparently when it comes to Jaime Lannister she _does_, and so she shakes her head and leans down and desperately hopes it won’t show that she has hardly experience kissing guys never mind _girls_, but then Jaime immediately kisses her back with a hand going to Brienne’s hair and grasping at it, and she moans a little inside Brienne’s mouth and suddenly her hands are on Brienne’s waist and _fuck_ but she has no idea —

“Okay,” Jaime breathes against Brienne’s mouth the moment they part, “now that went way better than I’d have imagined.”

“… What were you picturing?” Brienne asks.

“I don’t know, but I was listing hotels in case you threw me out,” Jaime says, and Brienne just —

“I can’t — you seriously thought I would?”

She shrugs. “I’m already barely believing that you still don’t let me pay rent.”

Brienne _does_ laugh at that, shaking her head. “Please, my dad owns the house, as if I need — never mind. I just, uh, I should probably point out, I’ve never — not with a woman. And with guys it went — well. Could have been worse, but —”

“Oh, because you think I’m that much better when it comes to _that_? I hate hook-ups, Cersei about made sure the two boyfriends I had ran after two weeks and I don’t exactly have this exciting dating life, you know. I mean, I knew I was hypothetically into women, too, doesn’t mean I actually _did_ anything about it.”

Brienne is pretty sure that dinner is ruined by now.

She thinks she doesn't care.

“Uh, well, I guess that’s even field then?”

“I think,” Jaime says, “that we can order out later.”

Brienne nods and a moment later they’re crashing into her bedroom and Jaime’s gotten rid of her shirt and jeans while Brienne shrugs off of her track pants and for a moment considers keeping the shirt on, but Jaime gets it off her a moment later and —

Right. She wasn’t wearing a bra but she never has one in the house, it’d be useless, and for a moment she feels like covering up but Jaime’s shaking her head and raising a hand upward and when Brienne nods slightly Jaime’s fingers brush against the side of one of her breasts and then softly cups it —

“Stop thinking you’re lacking in that department,” Jaime says, “I can read it on your face.”

“I’ve thought that for years, sorry to say,” she blurts, regretting it a moment later, but then Jaime shakes her head and slightly squeezes around it, and Brienne half-moans because it feels _good_, and Jaime is smirking openly now.

“Too bad,” she says, “I don’t see anything wrong there. Also, you do have an idea of what it means seeing you walk around without a bra every damned day?”

“… Why, you noticed the difference?”

“I think,” Jaime says, “that I still have fucking eyes. Sure I noticed. Now get over here.”

And then Jaime’s dragging her down on top of her and they’re kissing again and Brienne has no fucking clue about what she’s supposed to do, but —

Well, fuck it. It’s not like she never touched herself in her life. It can’t be _that_ different, right?

She tentatively moves her hand down, and wait, was Jaime wearing that green lingerie she bought that time they went shopping, shit, she _did_, and she’s raising her hips upwards and Brienne lowers the panties down before she can overthink it, and uncovers golden hair over pale skin, and for a moment she thinks that maybe she should flip them over, but then one of Jaime’s legs moves behind her thigh and she doesn’t try to flip them over —

She leans down, kissing her again, and then moves her hand in between Jaime’s legs, thinking for a fleeting moment that at least now the fact that she keeps her nails very, very short is paying off, and tentatively touches that soft, warm flesh, and —

She stops a moment before letting a couple of fingers slip inside — _shit_, Brienne realizes, _she’s wet already_, and she can’t believe it was because she kissed _her_, but maybe she needs to stop thinking and so she slips those fingers in deeper and moves her thumb over the clit, figuring that it really can’t go _wrong_ now regardless of how she supposes it might be a really basic move, and then Jaime’s hand tugs on his hair and she moans into Brienne’s mouth.

Brienne slips her fingers in deeper, just slightly, and Jaime’s hips arch up again, her leg pressing against Brienne’s thigh harder, giving her better access, and Brienne at that point gets bolder and moves her free left hand to Jaime’s breast, and she honestly has no damned clue of what she’s doing and she has to take a moment to process the fact that she’s actually _liking_ the feeling when she hasn’t looked at anyone’s breasts beyond a glance since she was fourteen and realized hers weren’t going to give her a full-on bosom, but then —

Then she _squeezes_, a bit harder, and Jaime moans louder, and Brienne can feel her breast getting stiffer under her palm just as she keeps on moving her fingers in the same way — maybe a bit bolder, maybe a bit in deeper, but she doesn’t dare do anything more lest she gets it wrong, until Jaime blurts something about how good it feels that her fingertips are that rough.

Brienne had no idea that might be a thing, she never _disliked_ the feeling when she touched herself but she’s never thought that much in-depth about it but if it’s working _good_, and so she maybe picks up a bit of speed as Jaime keeps on telling her to go on and that it feels perfect and that she needs to stop overthinking things —

Brienne doesn’t know how Jaime knows she _is_, in fact, overthinking it, and so she nods and tries to ignore how _she_ is burning in between her legs while Jaime’s mouth moves to her cheek, her tongue running over the think stripes that still haven’t faded, and then she stills for a moment just as Brienne brings her fingers a bit in deeper and then she sighs and she’s _clenching _around her, and for a moment she’s taken aback because it’s more forceful than she was expecting, and then she’s moaning louder and saying _yes_ all over as she shudders once, twice, and then she’s spilling all over Brienne’s fingers, and —

Jaime is holding on to Brienne’s shoulders as she comes, green eyes staring up into hers before she closes them with another sigh, and —

Thing is, Brienne’s previous okay experiences with guys had all felt _really_ good just when _she_ brought them off because she _did_ like the idea of someone finding pleasure in something _she_ did when people always told her no one would even look at her sideways, but since none of them had been friends or anything — it wasn’t _bad_, far from it, and she doesn’t regret them, but she hadn’t felt that kind of spark you’d assume you get all the time from how people make it sound. Now, though —

Now Jaime’s looking back up at her with a very, very satisfied smile on her face, hair plastered to her forehead and parted lips and she’s pressed up against her, so very _soft _where Brienne’s angular and firm, and her blood is rushing hot and she doesn’t know what to say except that when she moves a hand to Jaime’s face she makes a pleasured noise before she grins a bit wider and flips them over.

Brienne’s back hits the mattress as Jaime leans back and glances at her hands before shaking her head.

“Well,” she says, “this was _not_ the week I should have tried getting that manicure, I guess.” Then she grins wider. “I guess that if I can’t use my hands, because it’s really not the best idea right now... there are other options, right?”

Oh.

_Oh_.

Brienne thinks her fingers are trembling as she nods and parts her legs, and shudders when Jaime’s fingers brush along the pale blonde hair on her groin before she leans back down, golden hair brushing along Brienne’s thighs, and then she grins back up at her —

“I’ll disclose that I’ve never done this before, but who’s going to learn if you don’t give it a try, right?”

“Please, do you think _I_ have done that before myself? I’m not here grading your efforts.” Even if she _did_ like it, when guys did it to her, so —

“Good to know,” Jaime says, and then she just goes _straight_ for it, her tongue licking along Brienne’s clit a moment later, and Brienne about has to grasp at the sheets to not thrust her hips upwards too fast at the contact, but — she has been wet down there since they kissed and right now she has a feeling it’s obvious how turned on she’s been all this time, and then Jaime’s tongue is working her up with enough enthusiasm that it makes up for any lack of skill she might have had, and if she felt coiled before it really doesn’t take long for Brienne to completely forget about it. She keeps her tongue there, slowing down, then going faster, then slower again, as if she’s trying to see what works best except that it feels so good that Brienne feels like she’s going to jump out of her skin very, very soon, and if she holds to the sheet any tighter she’ll tear it, maybe —

She moves her hands down tentatively to Jaime’s soft, long hair, and _fuck_ but she feels Jaime moaning against her clit the moment she does that, and she doesn’t push or anything but then Jaime leans back to say something that Brienne hears as _you can pull if you want_, and so she does, maybe a bit, and Jaime moans again and then she moves away, her mouth leaving her clit be, and before Brienne can protest she’s running her tongue _around_ it, and her hands are touching Brienne’s inner thighs, and when a bit later she licks her clit again while not exactly slipping a finger inside her but just _touching_ her where she’s wet and at that point that’s _it_.

A wave of pleasure takes her at once as she screams Jaime’s name and she doesn’t think she’s come so hard in her entire life, and she can feel that Jaime’s throat is working up and down and _fuck_ is she swallowing, of course she is, and she’s smiling, she can _feel_ it.

She’s really so beyond _overthinking _things, she just closes her eyes and rides it out and by the time Jaime’s moved away from her legs and has moved on the other side of the bed, she feels warm all over and not at all tense anymore, and Jaime’s looking at her with the face of someone who’s extremely satisfied with herself.

Not that she shouldn’t be.

“So,” she says, licking her lips, “was that a good first attempt?”

“Please,” she manages to say, “if that was the first, I’m looking forward to seeing how it feels if you’ve practiced.”

“I just figured you wouldn’t mind what _I_ actually liked, but you do know how to make a girl feel special.”

Brienne _has_ to laugh at that. “Well, I also figured you wouldn’t mind what I liked, before. I suppose we both can do with practice.”

“I like the sound of that,” Jaime smirks again, her hand moving back to Brienne’s hip, “not that I wouldn’t mind going again in a bit.”

“As in, _now_?”

“What can I say, I went in figuring I’d find out how much I liked it, and considering that you smelled pretty nice and tasted even better, I’m absolutely down with that plan. Unless you had better ideas. Also, while this has been enlightening and all, you still haven’t answered me.”

“… I didn’t do _what_ now?” For a moment she blanks out, not realizing what the hell Jaime is going on about, but then Jaime shakes her head and grabs her hip and drags her on top again —

“You didn’t tell me if you’ll be my plus one at the wedding, which admittedly _might_ be a rhetorical question at this point, but some of us like to hear an answer.”

Brienne _does_ roll her eyes. Openly. “Yeah, yeah, sure I’ll be the plus one, we can go shopping for appropriate dresses together later, now if you don’t have better ideas to pass the next few hours —”

“If your plan is trying things out, I’m _entirely_ down with it. But I need another go at eating you out before we’re done. It _really_ was an enlightening experience.”

“Far from me to say no,” Brienne grins as she leans down and kisses her again.

They will need to figure it out. Oh, they definitely will —

But for now... maybe they can just _try things out_, and if she actually might be looking forward to that shopping for dresses later, she figures it’s not such a bad thing.

All in all, she decides before leaning backwards and trying out the _enlightening experience_ for herself, maybe she should send all the guys in her class a fruit basket because if they hadn’t been assholes she’d have never gone to _that_ pub, months ago.

But she’s going to worry about that later, and if Jaime is so bent on not leaving the bed before they wreck the sheets, well, she sees no problem with it. Not at all.

End.


End file.
